


Walk With Me

by AnnieAnnProps



Series: With Me [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Character Study?, F/F, Friendship, Growth, Rehabilitation, and mutual healing, and then mor angst, mom issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:43:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8759017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieAnnProps/pseuds/AnnieAnnProps
Summary: "widow is captured, and keeps trying to get Fareeha to act on her anger towards her. But she never does. She gets frustrated and mad and she hates her, but she never lashes out. Not only that, but she extends trust and respect towards widowmaker. And slowly that restraint chips away at widowmaker’s resolve."Inspired by a post made by the lovely Sapphixxx. A mutual healing piece where Fareeha makes peace with her past and Widow makes peace with her future.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sapphixxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphixxx/gifts).



> Took FAR TOO LONG. My god, i got nothing done today but writing this piece. I do got to say, i'm pretty proud of it. it was hard at first to get a hold of their dynamic but in the end, it started to really flow. 
> 
> Also, i can't decide if i want this to fit into the At the Seams universe cause fuck i like fitting things into that. So that's there.

Overwatch is officially reinstated with the backing of several nations; some U.N., others with more _personal_ incentives. It takes a big push from the Russian powerhouse, Volskaya Industries, in order for the ball to begin rolling down a three month long path of constant meetings, countless amendments, and finally a ceremony that she once thought was only a dream as a child.

_Strike Commander Fareeha Amari_

A redesigned, crisp uniform of midnight blue and brass. A lineup of hands to shake; all rehearsed, all perfect for the cameras that buzz about like vultures.

The world is watching this moment.

But it takes all the discipline in the world for Fareeha to not focus on her mother’s face throughout the ceremony. Impassive as ever, one eye draped over with white hair, the other narrowed.

Where is the pride that Morrison had promised, the hope that Dr. Ziegler has assured her of, just _any_ sign of what the woman is thinking of as Fareeha stands in front of the company that she is about to become the commander of.

Nothing. Just a blank face, the face of a soldier.

And it infuriates her.

Even as she shakes Ana’s hand after the hands of Morrison and Reinhardt, she gets nothing.

“Commander Pharah,” is all Ana says to her, an acknowledgment of her rank, and a display of respect.

And that is that.

When the show is finally over and the torrent of camera flashes have come and gone. The crowd quickly began to disperse into the connected hall where a celebratory buffet was awaiting them. Fareeha lags behind, standing next to her executive commander and watches the flood of people funnel out the doors.

“What did your mother say to you?” Fareeha keeps her gaze locked on a head of white that is not too hard to find beside a man as tall as Reinhardt.

A whole childhood of battling against the tide; against a mother who barred her from following in her footsteps. All the dreams she was forced to pretend did not exist until the day Ana had found the recruitment flyer under her bed on one of those blue moons her mother was actually home. The spite that burned like fuel and kept her alive through the grueling training.

Those days she spent alone in her hospital room after the rescue in the cellar. And when Ana finally did try to reach out to Fareeha months later, it was already too late. Fareeha was too caught up in her resentment to answer her letters. Her mother hoped the tragedy would serve as a lesson for Fareeha to stop her path in the military.

Spite burns hotter when there is nothing else to keep the engine running.

But now, when Fareeha stands on the mountain that everyone assured her she would one day climb, beside a woman that has kept her sane throughout her restless nights of worry and self-doubt. A friend, just a friend, they had discussed that.

Everyone believed in her but her mother.

Fareeha turns to Captain and Chief Surgeon Angela Zeigler with the same lump in her throat that lodged itself there the first time Ana completely shot down her dreams of joining Overwatch when Fareeha was just 10 years of age.

All she wanted was a word, something, anything. But all she got was-

“Nothing.”

* * *

 

It was a risky move but Fareeha didn’t get this far by being a coward.

With Talon on the run after they failed to intercept an Overwatch protected convoy, Fareeha rushed forward to lead the charge in hope of taking them out so there wouldn’t be a ‘next time’. She gave the order for her squad on the ground to fan out and eliminate all hostiles.

Shoot to kill, surrenders would be entertained.

She barely flinches when a crack of thunder echoes through the streets, but it is the cry of alarm behind her that causes Fareeha to stall the chase and look back. Sparks fly from the stump that was once Angela’s right wing as she spirals towards the asphalt below. Without a moment of hesitation, Fareeha drops fast and cataches Angela in her arms before quickly bringing them safely to the ground.

“Attention all units, they’ve got a sniper that’s shooting back. Winston, I need you at my location immediately.” Fareeha barks into the comms, immediately hearing and soon seeing the giant gorilla leap above the skyline in their direction.

“Danke.” Angela smiles up at her, it isn’t the first time she has been shot out of the sky but that didn’t make it any easier to handle.

Another loud shout and Winston lands heavily beside them, eyes doing a quick scan of the area before he hobbles over to their side.

“Stay with Winston, I’m going after that sniper.” Fareeha feels a hand grab hers before she can turn and take off into the air. Looking down, Angela stares up at her with defiant eyes.

“Absolutely not, let them run and call our people back. There is no need to seek out more bloodshed.”

The notion of it lasts only for a second in her mind before she finds it completely illogical. Now is the perfect opportunity to take out the enemy so that they have a better chance of seeing their next mission a success. If not that, then who knows how many innocent people these criminal will hurt before they’re taken out. There is no reason for them to give up the chase now, especially with the world expecting them to live up their promises of heroes.

Fareeha waits until Angela’s hand hesitantly fall away. She knows Angela only means well and cares for her safety. But there is a job to be done and in the end, it is a call to be made by the strike commander.

Without another word, Fareeha takes a step back and feels the thrusters on her back explode with force. Soon, she is high in the air watching her soldiers comb through the streets.

Another crack, a voice over the comm announcing the sniper two blocks North of Fareeha’s location. She changes direction and races towards the call. Dusk is falling, the air frigid in the city of Salt Lake.

For once, Fareeha is glad her arms and legs do not feel the cold that her face is feeling.

More chatter, reports of the sniper moving towards the perimeter the city police has set up close to a residential area. If they made it past that, then they were out of Overwatch jurisdiction and it would be up to the local law enforcement to seek them out.

Fareeha is not about to let another Talon operative slip out of her fingers.

Twisting sharply, Fareeha unloads a concussive blast at a nearby wall and rides the wave forward. There, a blur and a flash of red before a deafening crack. System calculations take hold and force her to bank left. She grits her teeth as she felt the bullet skim across her right shoulder armor.

Good, now Fareeha had her attention.

A blip on her visor indicates rapid movement in the darkness only a few meters in front of her. Too close for her to shoot if she wants to get out unscathed. Fareeha is already tensing and ready to pull the trigger; if it means a threat eliminated, then her wounds would heal in due time. But the shot never comes, instead, the clang of metal and a solid foot connecting with her midsection.

Kicked, Fareeha is _kicked_ out of the sky.

Hands grapple for purchase on her armor, her wings burning twice the fuel in order to keep the weight of two people in the air. It’s only a seconds later when the system warnings began to sound on her overheating fuel cells.

The dance in the air is an awkward flurry of fists. Steel cable tangles around her wings and kept her from controlling their fall. In a blind fury, Fareeha fires her rocket launcher in hopes of hitting whoever has latched onto her. After two failed shots, she drops the useless weapon in favor of gaining a second free hand to pry this nuisance off of her.

And it is then that Fareeha realize she has just done what the other wants her to do. Her wrist is caught mid hook and more cable wound around it. Too fast to keep up, her arm becomes welded to her side under a circle of wire.

Finally, they fall far enough for the light of a building to illuminate the face of her combatant.

Golden eyes, blue discolored skin, a smug smirk playing on the woman’s lips. Free falling, the fuel of her wings spent but now rage overcomes the panic in her chest.

Widowmaker

The one who nearly killed her mother.

Down to only one arm, Fareeha wrenches a fistful of Widowmaker’s winter uniform and holds fast. Face to face with only freezing air whirling between them, Fareeha breaks out into a wide grin of her own as her fuel cells recharge.

Obviously the assassin has the plans of disabling her and escaping, but if Fareeha is going down, she sure as hell isn’t going to go down alone.

Fareeha relishes in the slight widening of Widowmaker’s eyes as she fires up her wings, not to bring them back up, but thrusting them forward straight into the side of a skyscraper.

In a hail of broken glass, Fareeha carries them through the window with enough force to plow through several rows of cubicles. She can feel every impact that Widowmaker’s body makes with the flimsy half walls.

Suddenly, Fareeha’s shoulder is yanked down and they collide sideways into the next wall. The wings on her back snap on impact at the odd angle, only hanging onto her armor by wires and tubes.

None of it matters for somehow, through the blood pouring from the cut on the right side of her forehead, all Fareeha could see was the cool, condescending smirk that Widowmaker still wears. A familiar expression, one that ignites the smolders she could never let go from her childhood and turn them into a raging fire.

_“You are not cut out for a life in the military, Fareeha.”_

They slam into the ground, rolling end over end until Fareeha manages to pin Widowmaker to the floor. And still, with an arm crushing down on her throat, Widowmaker wears that _damned smirk._

_“Listen to me. Mother knows best.”_

No, it is her life, her choices and she is not going to let anyone tell her otherwise. Even as a child, the more her mother tried, the harder Fareeha fought back. All the anger she had kept bottled up over the years in order to keep the collected composure of a soldier comes bubbling back up. A roaring boil that takes her reasoning hostage and presents her with the task of wiping that fucking smirk off of Widowmaker’s face.

Harder she bears down, feeling not even an attempt at breath by the woman.

How dare this murderer wear such a face, as if she knows so much more than Fareeha; as if she holds all the cards? When all she needs is some goddamn indication that her mother sees her as a person, not just a daughter she needs to protect.

That Fareeha is an actual human being.

To be seen as an equal to her mother, that’s all she’s ever wanted.

“Pharah! Get off’a her!” Tiny hands pull Fareeha up from her knees, panting, knuckles coated in blood not her own.

She stands back and watches in a daze as Tracer rushes to Widowmaker’s side and oddly starts to pry her jaw open. Widowmaker can’t put up much of a fuss with one arm gentle pinned down by Tracer’s knee and the other bent at an unnatural angle. But she does try to bit down on Tracer’s prodding fingers.

“Don’t you dare, love. Don’t do it, we ain’t gon’ hurt you. I promise.” She chants, struggling with one side of Widowmaker’s mouth and then the other.

Moments later, she flicks two small lumps out onto the carpet before Tracer lets out a sigh and sagging back. Fareeha picks one up, finding that it has a bit of a give to it as if a gel-

Poison capsules; suicide in case of capture.

Fareeha will have a word with Lena later to find out how she knows of these.

For now, an odd sense of calmness envelopes Fareeha as the adrenaline begins to die down. She can hear the radio chatter coming through; Trace calling it in with Winston and Mercy en route. The mission a success, all 11 Talon operatives eliminated and a capture on one of their most prominent agents.

And yet this victory makes her feel no more satisfied than when she was appointed Strike Commander. Still, a hole inside of she has spent her whole life trying to find just what fit it

Fareeha spits the bitter blood in her mouth onto the floor and limps away.

All she feels like is a failure.

* * *

 

It wasn’t her to lose her cool like that.

Angela knows this and that is why Fareeha sits in a rather comfy couch facing the woman. The office is decorated in warm hues, an attempt to make it feel home-y. It works on most of her patients but to Fareeha, all of it feels too fake.

“Your mother,” Angela begins, her tone shifting to one of a concerned friend to that of her counselor. “Would you say that you still have unresolved issues with her?”

Yes, very much so, Fareeha can admit it to herself when she stares at her own face in the mirror for too long. Sometimes, she wonders how her life would’ve been different of her mother just supported her from the beginning. Perhaps she would have lost interest in the military, perhaps she wouldn’t be here now, getting a psyche evaluation after nearly killing Widowmaker with her fists.

But she can barely admit that when she is alone; it always made her feel so…lost.

“I’m my own person now.”

“Fareeha, you’re avoiding the question.”

And there is the bluntness that Fareeha respects in Angela. She sighs and stares at her hands; metal and robotic. They are a testament of how foolishly cocky she was in her younger years.

As their conversation wears on, Fareeha’s prickly defenses are slowly eased away by Angela’s persistence and uniquely tailored pattern of gentle inquires coupled with questions bordering on commands.

It was their first field mission after the ceremony where Talon forces showed up.

Perhaps, Angela suggests, that Fareeha is distraught by the lack of approval her mother and instead of having a conversation with her about it, Fareeha keeps it bottled up.

It becomes increasingly difficult not to bristle every time Angela suggests another reason for Fareeha’s troubles. Not because they are wrong, but because the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes the theories are true.

But just how much does Angela really care? As a friend, as her therapist, as her executive officer. Is she just doing her job, would she still care if she didn’t have to…?

All these things make a tangled web of conflicting interests, but it is how things ended up to be.

Deeper they dig and Fareeha begins to move past the initial reluctance and towards finding the root of the anger that consumed her two days ago _._

Her childhood, her troubles in school with only a very busy aunt there for her half the time. How strong her mother looked on the television in her clean uniform and words of praise by the masses. When she watched vids of Overwatch award ceremonies, she envied everyone that had their medal pinned by her mother.

The smile Ana would give them and a look that said ‘you did well, I am so proud of you.’

Her mother never looked at Fareeha like that.

And so after two hours, Fareeha stands up, a single, slightly damp tissue crumpled up in her fist. She doesn’t move for a moment, lost in thought and not quite knowing how to express whatever she is feeling. Her body tingles, her throat raw from crying.

A hand shake, a hug.

“Thank you.” Fareeha whispers quietly before she walks back to her quarters.

She sits alone in her room on her single chair in front of her desk. As freeing as it was to finally speak about her troubles with someone, Fareeha once more stares at her hands. Nothing in them.

Her mother would always agree to a tea party each time she came back home.

Perhaps, Fareeha suggests to herself, that it is about time she try and make her peace.

* * *

 

“Are you here to ask about _Amelie_ like your little doctor did?” Fareeha slides the door shut behind her, tossing a glance to the one way mirror opposite of her.

Fareeha directs her gaze onto the back of Widowmaker who sits handcuffed at a chair in front of the steel table. A picture of ‘Amelie Lacroix’ floats in front of her on a holodisk.

“She is dead, too weak to survive the harsh world.” Widowmaker watches as Fareeha steps out in front of her. “Maybe you are too, so willing to kill yourself to end me.”

Fareeha doesn’t respond, her finger swiping through the holodisk of Amelie. Angela hoped that there was a chance of reversing what Talon had done years ago, but it is now week two of Widowmaker’s capture with no signs of improvement.

The world demands blood and Fareeha is almost inclined to agree.

“They want you executed.”

“And yet I’m still here. You are too soft.” Fareeha unconsciously pulls herself back as Widowmaker leans forward, the corners of her lips curling up slightly. “You are just like your mother, too pathetic to take the shot.”

Fareeha scowls deeply at the taunt, old wounds beginning to fester again. That damned look returningk to Widowmaker’s face but this time, Fareeha bites back the anger. Her job today is to find another angle to turn Widowmaker into an asset. If there was no progress by the end of four months, then the Novus Mir, what the backers of the new Overwatch now call themselves, demand Widowmaker be tried and punished as a war criminal.

“All bark, no bite. It is in your eyes, cherie; you want to kill me.”

Something flickers in Widowmaker’s face just then, or maybe Fareeha just imagines it. Like a misstep that Widowmaker tries to cover up with a snarl.

“You have a pistol at your side non? There is no one can stopping you from your revenge. Granted you can even aim at this distance.”

Fareha’s frustration mounts with every taunt.

“Maybe then your mother will finally be proud of you.”

Fareeha’s fist slams against the table, oh what she would give for the end this charade and move on. Is she so easy to read that everyone knows about her relationship with her mother? She glares with a defiant heat building at the corners of her eyes.

Maybe it’s out of spite or compassion or that little sliver of hope that seems to always worm itself into every situation; but Fareeha walks behind Widowmaker and begins to fiddle with the cuffs. The moment they fall away, Widowmaker twists and lands a solid fist into Fareeha’s gut.

But she doesn’t fight back, merely batting an eyelash as she dodges and deflects blow after blow. It leaves the both of them panting, and oddly enough, with reserved smiles on both their faces. Neither expecting the other to be so proficient at hand to hand considering their roles on the battle field.

For a moment, they break apart, the cuffs now thrown into some unknown corner of the room. Fareeha knows there are people watching all of this very carefully, that there are guards right outside the door waiting to burst in, but not without her direct order.

And so they stand, catching their breaths as they stare at the other.

“Are you done?” Fareeha says, straightening up from her stance and wiping a trickle of sweat from her brow.

Something foreign thunders in Widowmaker’s veins, it’s been building the last two weeks of being away from whatever Talon does to her in her sleep. It’s hot, frustrating and so fucking persistent.

Like the numerous annoyances in Overwatch.

“What do you want?” Confusion is an emotion that feels so new to her.

“I want to give you chance,-“

“Amelie is dead.” She growls with so much venom, so much raw hurt that it makes Fareeha’s heart ache.

“Then you are not her, you are Widowmaker, or whatever name you wish to hold.” It takes her back with a furrow of her brow.

For all the times everyone has told her to be someone else; Talon had made her into Widowmaker, Overwatch wants to make her into Amelie. But with Fareeha…

There is a choice.

“Walk with me.”

She blinks, finally realizing there is a hand extended towards her. This woman who is risking everything to give her a chance. Of course Widowmaker was told the parameters of her capture, her inevitable execution if she could not be ‘converted’.

The word leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

 _Idiotic_ she thinks. This softness that Fareeha is exposing will be her downfall.

But Widowmaker takes the hand nonetheless. Gain their trust, destroy them from the inside out.

And so they walk, neither of them even sparing a glance to the two armed guard they pass as they step out into the hallway.

It is almost too easy.

* * *

 

There is word of an attack on the North end of the base. In reality; it’s a small scouting force that made a misstep and tripped an alarm.

All of them escape, one commits suicide in the midst of capture.

Widowmaker doesn’t know what to make of what seems to be a pathetic attempt at a rescue.

* * *

 

“You’re making a mistake trusting that woman.” Ana says to Fareeha the moment the commander walks into the briefing room.

It’s just the two of them, the usual ones fifteen minutes early to a routine meeting.

Fareeha’s fingers tighten around the folder in her hand. Of course her mother wouldn’t approve of her decision. Yesterday was the first time Fareeha had spent time alone with Widowmaker. She had visited the assassin in her cell, more of a barely furnished living quarter’s actually.

Fareeha tried to ask questions, Widowmaker listened and then turned to insulting her. At one point, Widowmaker threw her book at Fareeha and screamed at her to leave.

“Then it is my mistake to make.”

That makes Ana pause. She expected a bite back, some sort of defense of her action. Not a complete dismissal of her statement.

“Fareeha, learn from your mother. I did what you doing now and I nearly died.” She absent mindedly touches the eyepatch on her face.

“And that was your choice. It is different this time, let me make my own choices.” Fareeha can already feel the irritation building inside of her. As much as she understands and as much as she loves her mother; it hurts her to know that every word of advice Ana tries to give just serves to rub Fareeha the wrong way.

“Do you really want to throw away your so badly?”

“Ana.” Fareeha grinds out, cutting off whatever she had to say next. “My decisions as Strike Commander are not up for discussion.”

And in that moment, something inside the both of them click.

That Fareeha is no longer a child, that she is now the leader of the quickly rising Overwatch with her own path ahead of her. A path that Ana can’t guide her on, at least, without Fareeha wanting her to.

That her daughter has grown into the woman that stand before her.

Ana…stares. Swallows thickly. And then nods, lips pressed thin. It’s a bitter realization, but something akin to pride begins to swell in her chest.

The others begin to file into the room, the meeting wears on, and Ana does her best to keep her chiding to a minimum.

* * *

 

“Widow.” Fareeha looks up from her reports, looking quizzically at the woman.

They sit in their customary spots in Widowmaker’s quarters. Today, instead of a book, she is quietly watching some sort of movie on her holopad. Fareeha actually has reports about Overwatch’s progress to read over. Nothing confidential, but still things that should be kept from the public eye. This fact, of course, did not go unnoticed by Widowmaker.

“I would like to be addressed as Widow.” She doesn’t offer an explanation.

“Alright, Widow.”

Widow doesn’t even look up from her position, but she lets a small smile crack across her face.

Later, Fareeha learns that it’s a movie that Lena had recommended her watch. ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’

* * *

 

Widow sits through the droning of the chief surgeon, sits through the endless blood tests and brain scans and evaluation after evaluation. She answers their questions as curtly as possible, at least small handful of them she actually responds to.

But every other day, Fareeha somehow manages to consistently scrounge up an hour of her time to spend in Widow’s sparse quarters. Sometimes they talk, sometimes just read in each other’s presence.

On those days, she is reminded of her life back at the Talon base; soft evenings with Gabriel and Sombra-

She frowns, setting her book down into her lap and glancing over to the empty chair where Fareeha would sit. No one has the right to make her feel this way.

* * *

 

Fareeha narrows her eyes after waiting for more than a few second outside of Widow’s door. Surveillance showed that she was inside reading as usual.

“Widow.” She calls angrily into the comm.

“Leave.” Comes the response.

Of course Fareeha doesn’t always do what she’s told.

Opening the door, she storms in to see the familiar sight of Widow curled up on the bench next to her window, a book with a bright blue cover and a black cloud of some sort. She doesn’t look up to greet her.

And she isn’t quite sure where Widow gets these books.

“Someone leaked our movements to Talon.” Fareeha stalks up to Widow, using a hand to shove the book away from her face.

“And you think it was me.” It’s not a question, Widow inwardly grins at the strain lining the edges of Fareeha’s voice. “What if I did?”

Life as an Overwatch prisoner was boring at best, especially with Lena sent away on a mission. It was always fun to get a rise out that the girl. But now, there was no one to bother, not even the doctor’s indignant face served to give her much satisfaction.

However, now there is a thrill running through her, overwhelmingly loud. From a month into her ‘recovery’, everything feels so vivid and live, but so fleeting. One moment so high, the next wanting more. Widow would never admit it, but she is addicted to the simple act of _feeling._

On the outside, she still holds onto her impassive façade because after all, she is above primal emotions. Talon taught her to become so much more than a meek little human chained to their hearts.

“Are you finally going to stop this little game, Cherie?” Widow rises to her feet, coming only centimeters away from Fareeha’s face who refuses to take a step back. “Your pitiful attempts at ‘nursing me back to health’.”

And Widow revels in the swirling inside of Fareeha’s gaze. _Lash out. Show me how you are a slave to your anger._ She braces for the fists with gleeful anticipation.

But it never comes.

With a huff bordering on a low growl, Fareeha takes a step back with her eyes still locked on Widow.

“Walk with me.”

There isn’t much room to argue when Fareeha barks it out like an order. The anger is still there, Widow can feel it seeping out of every crack in Fareeha’s mask. But somehow, even with her fist clenched tight at her sides, Fareeha doesn’t break.

And that, _that,_ makes something inside of Widow churn with disgust.

____

Fareeha leads them to the gym and into one of the sparring rooms. It comes to no surprise that the soldier would want to work off anger in a physical manner. It does brings a touch of disappointment that Fareeha contains herself long enough to get them into a sparring room before trying to beat her into the ground like before.

Disappointment and a stubborn speck of respect.

They don’t change into workout clothes, their shoes stay on as Fareeha steps out into the middle of the empty room.

“One of my squads were ambushed because of that leak.” Her voice is tight. Widow rolls her eyes with Fareeha’s back to her, looks like the woman is going to give her a lesson on morals; a guilt trip, the only thing the poor woman knows.

Without warning, Fareeha swings a leg out, her foot connecting heavily onto Widow’s forearm that barely comes up in time to protect her head. The force is enough to make her stagger back and put some distance between them.

So it begins.

Widow is kept on the defense as Fareeha continues to throw punches and kicks, only one manages to land and she can tell that Fareeha is holding back. At this realization, Widow traps the next kick under her arm and twists. She will not be toyed with.

The ankle doesn’t snap, of course, they’re prosthetic just like her own. But the action is enough to make Fareeha lose balance and stumble face first onto the mats.

Another tussle on the floor, grappling and rolling until Fareeha almost puts her into a hold but Widow is able to land a kick to Fareeha’s stomach that sends her skidding across the floor. Widow gets onto her feet, dabbing away the blood on her split lip. Steel fists hurt a lot more than normal flesh and bone.

“Predictable that a grunts use their fists to answer their anger.” It would be a bullet if it were up to Widow, the satisfaction in knowing that there would not be a second offense.

“This is not for me.” Fareeha stands just as tall as before, with the same fury in her eyes. Nothing has changed, so why are they wasting time fighting if it help neither of them?

“I’m taking you on an escort mission in two weeks. I need you to be ready for any ambushes we may encounter. You’re a sniper, not a ‘grunt’ who has to get up close and personal with the enemy.”

Widow wants to ask the question of ‘why’. But she has no doubt it’ll just be some sort of mushy, emotional answer that she does not want to hear. Not when she feels so insulted. She was a threat and here Fareeha was training her to help on an Overwatch operation.

It’s almost too easy.

She doesn’t wait for Fareeha to make the first move, instead Widow charges first, turning the tables to forcing Fareeha to dance to her music. One step, two step, their styles begin to respond to one another. While Widow prefers to grapple and toss, usually giving her the opening to hook away to finish them off with a bullet, Fareeha fights without the intention of escape; to disable and choke the other into submission.

While her mind falls into the rhythm of ‘engagement, a few seconds of rest, and then a lunge back in’; Widow can’t help but stew in the confusion of _why._

Perhaps a publicity act as if she were some pawn or trophy. Look at Overwatch, so influential that they are able to turn one of Talon’s best agents to the side of good.

She sneers at the idea.

If they were to play her, they best be prepared for her to fight back.

* * *

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Fareeha says to Widow as she closes the door, giving a slight nod to the guard stationed outside.

She manages to turn the corner before Ana finds her with a tissue and pinching her still bleeding nose. The look of reproach is instantaneous and Fareeha can feel herself already building up her defenses.

Fareeha hates that she feels all their encounters will lead to a fight.

“How is the training going?” Ana starts even enough, an inquiry that puts Fareeha on edge at its simplicity.

“Very well, she’s improving.”

Their sparring is now daily and tomorrow they are getting onto a transport for Nepal. The last few days, Fareeha had Widow blindfolded and forced her to listen for the bells strapped to Fareeha’s hands and feet. It was quite the challenge for the both of them.

“You trust her.” Again, a statement, neutral and suspiciously optimistic.

“I trust that she will figure out who she wants to be.” Fareeha says so distantly, almost as if they are no longer talking about Widow.

Ana places a hand on Fareeha’s arm, smiling softly up at her. For a moment, the look of sheer _warmth,_ makes her feel…

“I hope all goes well, if not, I’ll bail you out.”

And finally a smirk, the usual jab that once would make Fareeha’s hair rise on end at the insinuation of her being incapable. But now, it’s a safety net, a backup plan that puts a grain of her mind at ease.

She smiles back at her mother, not all of the frustration boiling away, but it’s a start.

“Thank you.”

* * *

 

“You know I don’t approve of this.” Angela says as Fareeha sinks into the damned comfortable couch after tossing the bloody tissue into the rubbish.  

She is worried, everyone is. The only person who did not object to her idea of bringing Widow on the mission tomorrow was Ana, well, she didn’t agree, but she did not denounce it either. Fareeha’s nerves are becoming frayed at the ends as the evening wears on. In just hours, they’ll be hopping onto a transport first thing in the morning.

“You don’t approve of much, you know?”

“I approve you of keeping up with you medication, which I thank you for actually. You do not know how many soldiers I must hound to make sure they complete their antibiotic regimen.”

Fareeha chuckles at Andgela’s exasperation, earning herself a halfhearted glare. Of course she knows how hard it is to make a stubborn soldier stop listening to their pride, she was one of them once.

“How are things with your mother?” Always the question she asks at each of their sessions. Fareeha’s slowly been able to find more and more positive things to say about Ana.

Their initial fight when they captured Widow two months ago followed by two week of not speaking to each other outside of meetings.

Then the morning when Fareeha found a cup of her favorite tea on her desk. She could never find the time to gather all the ingredients for her favorite brew, not that anyone knew how complicated she liked her tea.

No one but her mother, whom she blames for bringing them to India where she got addicted to the mix.

Their gradual ease back into chats whenever they would pass by.

Their conversation in the hallway.

“Better.”

And Fareeha can’t explain the tears threatening to spill or the new lump in the back of her throat. All she can feel is relief as she thinks about the journey that has brought her here.

* * *

 

Alone in her room with dusk quickly turning into night, Widow looks out of her window onto the courtyard below. Her hands are lack their usual book, instead, a cup of a strange, milky tea that Fareeha had given her.

She sips the drink, it is heavy with spices and stings on the way down. It’s so strange for things to have a taste.

Tomorrow…

Widow does not quite know what will happen on the mission. She should’ve refused to agree to it, perhaps hurt Fareeha enough to make her rethink her choice of trusting her.

The woman’s softness will be the death of her.

But in the end. She looks out and sees a little blur of blue light zipping around the rooftops and she wonders who she will be when tomorrow comes.

* * *

 

The transport is quiet with just the five of them; Fareeha, Widow, Ana, Jack, and Reinhardt. The briefing has been done, Widow donning a regulation Overwatch uniform and side arm. A simple escort of some low end politician with deeper pockets and most. Less glamorous but something has to help pay the bills.

Jack advised that Widow be kept in the dark expect for the major points, Fareeha does the opposite.

For trust to be built, someone has to take the first risk.

The door of the transport opens and they step out onto the building’s private runway. There’s a squad of security to greet them; the usual secret service with tacky sunglasses and black suits.

Another briefing, another rundown of the plan before everyone preps and moves to the foyer. Ana has gone ahead to find the perches she picked out for herself. It’s the only information that is kept from Widow, kept from all of them actually.

A car they need to escort to a government building ten blocks down a road that will be crawling with local police. It’s a show of power more than anything else. There’s a moment where Morrison has gone off to chat with a face he recognizes, leaving Fareeha and Widow waiting just outside the building doors.

“Remember your training, and we’ll get through this just fine.” Fareeha says to Widow who bites back a scoff before turning away. Heroic speeches, of course.

What is she even doing here, in a pressed uniform of her enemy with a tiny inkling in her mind urging her to actually care about the mission objective? The man they are protecting is just like any other man, kill one, another one just like him with be his replacement.

Nothing changes, there is only a hiccup in between cycles.

But the door opens, the black car rolls out with Morrison beside it. They exchange glances, a check in with Ana over the comm system.

_“I’m in position. Look after yourselves out there, I’ll get us home safe.”_

And so the mission begins.

* * *

 

“What was that tea you gave me last night?” For some reason, Widow feels inclined to fill in the silence that surrounds them as they walk down the street.

The crowds are enormous on either side, people and omnics gather behind the barriers. Most cheerful, others protesters that are escorted away when a bottle goes flying through the air.

It shatters with a clap before it can get anywhere close to them.

“Too easy.” Comes the chuckle over the radio.

Widow thinks she could’ve done better.

And then she notices it, a spot along the barriers where the edges of the shadows casted are too feathery, pulsing, _alive._

She knows exactly who it is.

* * *

 

“Masala Chai, did you enjoy it?” Fareeha glances over to her companion, not really expecting an answer from Widow; actually a bit surprised that she was the one to speak first.

Her mind teeters on the edge of boredom. Nothing ever happened on escort missions like these.

Fareeha does notice the tensing of Widow’s shoulders after the bottle is shot out of the air. Too much to be chalked up to regular mission jitters, so her follows her gaze to the patch of onlookers, looking for whatever has her on edge.

She finds nothing.

* * *

 

Widow’s head is so loud with a cacophony of deafening chatter. For the first time since she can remember, panic begins to rise in her throat.

This should not be a hard decision, should not even be a choice. It should just be instinct because this was her plan all along, was it not? To infiltrate, gain their trust, tear them apart from the inside out.

Gabriel is here, which means Talon is here.

So why does she feel so fucking conflicted.

* * *

 

“Fix your posture, Fareeha.” Fareeha’s face scrunches up, eyes momentarily glancing up at the rooftops, not that she even has any idea where her mother is hiding. Nonetheless, she pulls her shoulders back and continues scanning the crowd for threats.

She always hated walking in her Raptora suit.

“Focus on the mission.” She chides back.

* * *

 

Another shadow flares at Widow’s feet, a blatant signal intended for her only. With a glance, she’s sure that no one else caught it.

But then she remembers Ana, somewhere high up. Would she have seen it? Would she call her out for not reporting it?

Widow grinds her teeth together, fingers twitching for her meager pistol.

It is getting too loud, too much and too complicated.

* * *

 

One block left, the street opens up to a square filled with people waiting to see their man step out and walk into the building. The car comes to a stop.

Widow holds her breath.

The door opens.

And black smoke billows out.

The damned man was always one for theatrics.

Out comes the politician with a shotgun pressed against his back and Reaper standing behind him.

“D-don’t shoot.” The frightened man whimpers, nervously eyeing Fareeha’s squad who are now pointing their weapons at them.

All but Widow.

* * *

 

Three months of countless…everything. So many nights where she just stares at her ceiling and so many days that she does the same. To feel like she is hanging in a limbo.

Life at Overwatch does not feel all that different from life at Talon.

She sleeps, eats, and breathes.

She trains, reads, talks sometimes.

She has friends, once Gabriel and sometimes Sombra.

And she still does, now Lena and Fareeha.

But she sees when Fareeha bridles with anger when someone steps out of line. Her eyes narrow, her fists clench and she falls back on barking orders to demand the respect of unquestioning loyalty. Only once has she seen the woman boil over during their first fight.

And she tried to get another rise out of the woman

Because the anger inside of Fareeha make her weak and rash; things that Widow are not

But every time, she resists, still mad, but somehow still in control.

Baffling, infuriating, and begrudgingly impressive.  

For yes, the woman she knows as Strike Commander Fareeha Amari is still leashed to her past, tethered to her problems with her mother and the look of disgust she on rare occasions lets slip when stares at her reflection for too long; to everything that has molded her into what she is now.

Fareeha is Fareeha, awkwardly compassionate and disgustingly soft.

She doesn’t let that anger dictate who she is.

Fareeha doesn’t expect her to become Amelie, doesn’t expect her to stay Widowmaker.

Widow is…free to choose whoever she wants to be.

* * *

 

Widow walks up beside to Reaper.

Not a single breath is drawn.

“Good to have you back.” He growls behind his mask, barely sparing her a glance.

“Of course.” Ana calls over the comm.

Nothing changes.

When someone dies, another one just like them is put into their place.

It is obvious that no one is surprised when Widow draws her pistol. She has no interest in what the others think of her, except for Fareeha. Her gaze locks onto Fareeha’s eyes.

They are angry, burning with fury, the pit in her chest must be consuming her now.

All that hope.

Her softness will be her downfall.

Widow expects her to speak, for this must be the final straw to crack the little perfect soldier façade. Perhaps it will end just how it began.

Just then, she can feel it coming, like a sixth sense engraved into her as a sniper. The lining of crosshairs, the squeezing of a trigger and the launch of a bullet.

It is said a shot from a sniper will kill before the sound even reaches the ears.

There is not cliché slowing of time, no battle of emotions that already happened throughout their march to this very moment. Just the knowledge that in a millisecond, someone is going to be dead.

And her instincts kicks in.

With a violent shove, Widow throws Reaper to the ground, Ana’s bullet ripping past them and lodging into the car. She doesn’t even think as she levels her pistol onto the Reaper’s spine in between the armor plating. His weak spot he once revealed. It was one of his worst nights.

He had begged her to end his misery.

A request she could fulfill in a pull of a trigger.

But she didn’t that night.

And she doesn’t today.

Everything explodes in a flurry of commotion, there is a roar and a tremor before the smell of burning fuel reaches Widow’s nose.

“Get back!” A blast goes off in the middle of the chaos and Widow is hurled over the barrier and into the panicking crowd.

* * *

 

Widow watches the news reports as she sits in her dusty chair.

No casualties, the man is safe, all Talon agents somehow escaped, the war criminal Widowmaker is now at large. Speculation has returning to the ranks of Talon.

She doesn’t have a name for the emotion brewing in her chest as she sees Fareeha’s face in front of a multitude of microphones. It’s not the woman’s words she’s watching for, but her face and eyes.

They are angry.

And hurt.

But still, somehow, her voice is restrained enough to hide that fact. The world criticizes her decision to have Widow involved in the mission. She defends herself, she defends Overwatch, but in between the lines, she says;

“We do not know where Widow is now and we are not certain if she has gone back to Talon.”

Fareeha is defending Widow.

She shuts the television off, letting the glow of the setting sun bask the outdated safe house in hues of oranges and reds. The couch is not as comfy as the one in Angela’s office.

Widow would not go as far as to say she misses it, any of it; Talon or Overwatch. She’s sure by now both of them want her dead.

The tea on the table is musty from staying too long in the cupboards here.

But it has flavor, the place has a smell, she can feel this _something_ in her chest. And she has Fareeha to thank for all of it.

Or to blame

“Widow.” She flinches at the sudden sound sounding in her ear from the comm she had forgotten to remove. Her time at Overwatch has made her dreadfully sloppy.

* * *

 

Fareeha sits alone in her hotel room, a half written report on the table in front of her. There are three empty beer bottles to her left, a fourth one on its last dregs in her hand.

She can hear Reinhardt’s laughter next door through the wall.

Her mother was right, everyone was; she was a fool to trust Widow. Perhaps. But their man was still alive when she had the perfect chance to…

“Widow.” She says, the edges beginning to slur. Fareeha knows the comm is still active, the indicators show that Widow is still wearing it.

She hasn’t told anyone this.

Here, these last moments before Widow is for certain going to take the comm out of her ear and Fareeha can’t find the words to express the concoction of conflicting emotions in her head.

Is she angry with Widow? Of course, there is not denying that. Fareeha is angry with everything, with everyone, with herself and the situation that was presented. She knew that Widow would one day leave, just like they all did for one reason or another.

But the feeling does not go as far as betrayal.

No one died, Widow did not shoot back at them.

Perhaps there was still hope.

* * *

 

Widow’s fingers hover over her ear, wanting to pull the device out but some part of her hesitates, wanting to hear just what Fareeha has to say to her.

Instead, she presses it and opens the line.

* * *

 

_“I’m sorry”_

Fareeha chokes on her breath at the words that come across.

_“and thank you, cherie.”_

The line is cut and the indicator announces that the device has been destroyed.

And Fareeha finds a word for the new stubborn little emotion that has taken up residence in the corner of her heart. _Pride_

Perhaps, Widow has found who she wants to be.


End file.
